


Without a Sense of Feeling

by CrumblingAsh



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Afghanistan, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Body Horror, Female Tony, Gen, Hurt Tony, Medical Trauma, Non-Consensual, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Avengers (2012), Tony Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2014-04-24
Packaged: 2018-01-20 15:25:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1515452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrumblingAsh/pseuds/CrumblingAsh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are two thick scars that rope down her chest. </p><p>Obie mentions reconstructive surgery more than once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Without a Sense of Feeling

 

* * *

 

There are two thick scars that rope down her chest – they should go sideways, like slits or slots on a machine, open and ready, be thin, but they don’t, they’re not.

 

_(Yinsen’s grim, defeated smile. “They were in the way.”)_

* * *

Rhodey’s body jerks against hers in the desert when he catches her, an unconscious reaction to _lack_ that would have shattered her if she hadn’t been too exhausted, too done to give a damn. She shivers against him instead, even though it’s _so fucking hot_ , tucking her face into his neck to hide from the sun, from the heat, from the sand blowing and the looks that are slowly coming as more and more soldiers get nearer because the tank top is too big and hides nothing. She waits long, long seconds before Rhodey’s strong arms move to wrap more firmly around her, closes her eyes as he growls in her ear, “Fuck, Toni. Fuck, it’s … it’s okay. You’re okay. We’ll fix it, we’ll fix it.”

She can’t tell him that there’s so much more that’s broken besides her body, because she feels it, too.

 

In the back of the helicopter, tucked securely against her best friend’s side, she glares away the medic and huddles under Rhodey’s quickly shed jacket. It swamps her, drowns her, and she sinks.

 

 

* * *

 

Forty-eight hours later she steps out of the plane in a short, high-necked dress and still wearing the jacket. Three months ago, it would have just been the dress.

 

Rhodey, though his touch is timid, keeps her balanced, keeps her moving – he’s her best friend, the only thing she had for a long time, but right now she can’t wait to be away from him, from his torn-up eyes and the tentative way he _speaks_ to her now.

 

( _“It’s not_ new,” _she hisses, stung. “They’ve been gone for months, Rhodey. Months.” He flinches, she quits, and they're both gutted by the words.)_

Pepper stands at the end, her tragically beautiful assistant, smiling as the stretcher is waved away, and Toni can handle that. Pepper is awesome, Pepper won’t care, Pepper’s ... eyes are red.

 

“Few tears for your long lost boss?” She quips. Pepper snorts, though her eyes light up, and unconsciously Toni hunches her shoulders, puffs the jacket up and out as those eyes travel her up and down.

 

“Tears of joy,” the other woman drawls back, dry and oblivious. “I hate job hunting.”

 

It’s a relief.

 

* * *

The press conference is a mistake. She can’t breathe, shoves a hamburger in her mouth to avoid talking, ducks under Obie’s arm before it can draw her too close.

 

She wants to sit, so very badly, but she doesn’t, it’s not the dress. She can’t afford to.

 

Instead, she stands at the podium, leaning against it, and stares them all in the face so that her eyes are all they can make themselves look at. She calls up every ounce of vindication and pushes back every wave of agony and anger and fear, remembers the pain she saw and the pain she felt and the scars that itch beneath her dress.

 

She cancels Stark Industries’ weapons program with one solid sentence, hides in the sudden uproar that’s focused on her words and not her body as Obadiah jumps into shark infested waters to try and save a sinking ship, and darts away to where Happy is (always) waiting.

 

In the back seat, her empty chest heaves.

 

* * *

The hum of her father’s giant (flawed) arc reactor vibrates the floor and the guard rail she leans over, comforts her for the first time in too long, and Obie corners her against it.

 

“Who told you?” She demands under his hungry eyes. Obadiah has always been in her life, the father her father couldn’t be and the uncle she never had and all those other clichéd spiels she secretly puts stock in, but he’s still a business man at his core and that’s all greed. She rolls her eyes, snarks and bites out, “Rhodey” because _of course_ it was Rhodey, the bastard. Her fingers shake as she pushes back the jacket and pulls down the top of the dress just enough, just enough to show off the ridiculous (awesome, really, it’s fucking _futuristic blue_ and she loves futuristic blue) battery embedded in her body. But just enough is too far, and she isn’t thinking about it, isn’t considering what he should have been seeing versus what he is until his face, momentarily elated at the sight of the smaller arc reactor _in_ her chest, twists into paralyzed disgust.

 

_Oh, God._

She lets go of the collar quickly, and the dress snaps back up, but it’s too late. Obadiah hadn’t known, Rhodey hadn’t told him about that, and she just _let them show-._

Obie takes a breath, “Toni…” he tries, stops. The disgust is fading from his face to some darker look of pity and she needs a drink. “There’s … why don’t you …” He shakes his head as if clearing it. “Let me have my guys take a look at that, run some tests-.”

 

That. The arc reactor. He backs off and she can play that, that she can do.

 

“No, Obie.” It comes out so strong. “This one stays with me.”

 

His eyes flash, but he doesn’t push, so unlike him. Just … just looks down with a tired sigh, and she steps away, turns around, because she’s leaving, she hasn’t even been _home_ -.

 

“Natasha,” he calls after her, soft and wounded and _Obie_. “There… there are options. Reconstructive surgery.”

 

She keeps walking.

* * *

 

JARVIS lights up the second she walks through the door, illuminating the workshop like a fresh dream, and it’s as if she never left.

 

You zips from his charging station with chirps and chitters, wheels around her like he’s on crack and Toni can’t help but let out a tired chuckle at the robot’s antics. Butterfingers rolls an electronic purr as he immediately goes to his usual tasks, subdued but still himself, as he almost immediately sends a scattering of tools to the floor with an accidental nudge. Dummy doesn’t move, his camera unseeing as her fingers trail over his frame. He’s positioned feet from the door, so far from his dock.

 

“I am afraid I could not get him to charge, ma’am,” JARVIS apologizes quietly. “He has stayed in that position since the third day of your disappearance, and nothing I did could persuade him to be elsewhere.”

 

“It’s okay, J,” she replies, just as quiet. She gives the joint of Dummy’s neck a firm pat, brushing dust from the lens of his camera. “Stupid,” she mutters “We charge when we’re low, you know this. Just because I’m gone is no reason to disobey these simple rules, Dummy.” She pushes him backwards, toward the charging stations she’s built for them, careful not to bump him into anything. Softer still; she’s tired and hasn’t had a drink in months, “It’s okay.” She situates him on top of the slab, stepping back as it glows. “We’ll fix it.”

 

_It’s okay. You’re okay. We’ll fix it, we’ll fix it._

“Ma’am?” JARVIS calls, concern echoing in the flickering of lights that draws her attention back. “Sensors have indicated a foreign electronic power source of significant output within the workshop. Would you like me to -.”

 

“No, JARVIS,” she dismissively snaps, and it’s harsh. Shorter than she’s ever been with him, with any of them. The AI is immediately quiet and she sucks in a hard, shuddering breath. “Just. Fuck, J, sorry, I’m sorry. Just.” Another breath. “Black out, 100%.”

 

Instantly, the wall of glass between the workshop and the stairwell is nothing more than opaque panels. Another breath.

 

“…Ma’am?”

 

“Bring up a screen. Reflective.”

 

Rhodey’s jacket falls to the floor and she reaches behind herself, fingers grazing the zipper of the dress, watching as her digital reflection does the same. You and Butterfingers are silent, observing with curiosity as she pulls down, the dress spreading, and she looks down as she shrugs, pushing it from her shoulders.

 

She watches as it pools at her feet like liquid, sensual black satin from a time before. She can practically feel JARVIS’ scrutiny, the confusion of her bots. Another breath, hard, harder, in in in; looks up again.

 

Thick, ragged brown scars, winding up from the middle of her ribs, stopping inches below her collarbones, on both sides but cruelly un-identical. And in the middle, beautiful and pulsing and brilliant, the arc reactor protrudes from more.

 

It’s disgusting.

 

 

* * *

 

Pepper’s eyes are wide, horrified.

 

Toni tenses, waits for it, she shouldn’t have asked, should have trained Dummy or You-.

 

“Is that the thing that’s keeping you alive?” The woman breathes, sounding awed. The billionaire wants to cry and smile at the same time and it’s ridiculous.

 

“It was,” she corrects. “It is now an antique.”

 

Pepper’s hands don’t even brush the scars.

 

* * *

 

The workshop’s shower doesn’t have a mirror.

 

It’d be easy enough to get rid of the one in her room.

 

She just brings some clothes down, instead.

 

* * *

 

The suit is the best and worst idea she has ever had. It’s perfect, exhilarating, and if it could stop slamming her into walls that would be even more fantastic.

 

JARVIS is disapproving and she laughs off his concern.

 

“JARVIS, really. I don’t think I can destroy my body any more than it already is.”

 

It shouldn’t be even a quarter as funny as it is; she laughs harder, and her stomach feels sick again until she clenches her fist and feels the titanium alloy underneath.

 

She’s not building weapons. But it encases her in protection anyway.

 

* * *

She tries, because she misses him, damn it. And she wants to tell him what she’s been working on, the same as she always has ever since MIT, when she’d ring him up or drag him to the robotics lab to show him this thing or that thing and they’d both pretend he knew what she was talking about.

 

But it doesn’t work.

 

She wants to believe that Rhodey is mad because she gave up the weapons industry, because she’s not supplying him or his business or his beliefs. He wants her to believe that, too, harsh and dismissive; he even walks away, leaves her standing in the hangar because it’s her fault.

 

But she hadn’t missed the grimace across his face when his arm had brushed her chest when they had gotten too close, the way he had forced his eyes to stay on her face, when before it had never been a concern that they would wander.

 

Why isn’t this working?

 

* * *

 

She walks upstairs one night to Pepper sitting pristinely with her laptop and Obie pressing away at the grand piano, filling the room with the only song he had ever learned how to play. It sounds stale, empty – the sight of the pizza box on top of the expensive instrument makes her grimace.

 

“That bad, huh?” She asks softly, feels a stab of guilt. Stark Industries is her company, and while Obadiah has always enjoyed taking the hard knocks for her, it doesn’t mean he should have to.

 

“Just because I brought back pizza from New York doesn’t mean it was bad.” His voice is falsely cheerful, the tone he had always used on her as a child when forced to tell her that Howard couldn’t make it, _again_. “Would have gone better if you were there,” he adds slowly.

 

On reflex she hunches her shoulders when he looks up – her shirt is big enough to yield to the effect, but it’s not necessary. Obie knows what’s under it, knows why she keeps her head down. “You wanted me to lie low, remember,” she tries lightly, edging toward the box to grab a slice. His cool eyes follow her every move.

 

“From the press, Toni, not the Board. They weren’t happy. They … moved to lock you out. Think what you’re doing is bad for the company.”

 

Well. She flinches, looks to Pepper who isn’t watching, and looks down. That sucks.

 

Obadiah sighs; she watches his brow furrow as the sorrowful, uncomfortable look passes over his face again. “It’s … because of them, isn’t it? Why you’re hiding?” She knows what he means and doesn’t answer. “Toni … the … the surgery is still an option. You can get it done, take the rehabilitation time to really relax, get your thoughts straight. Money’s not an issue, we can find somewhere secret, quiet, no one would know you were there.” She takes a bite of the pizza as he pauses, adds, “It wouldn’t be fake; you wouldn’t be cheating. It’s just restoring what was already there. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

 

She swallows the bite so hard she chokes; can’t see the look Pepper shoots Obadiah through the tears in her eyes as she coughs.

 

“ _I’m going back to work now_.” She gasps out, already at the stairwell.

 

“Why don’t you let me come down there, see what you’re working on?” The man knows when to back off, but she … she just fucking can’t.

 

“Good night, Obie.”

 

She drops the rest of the pizza into the trashcan, grabs the hammer from the table, and straddles the bench where the helmet sits, waiting.

 

She isn’t ashamed.

 

She hits the metal harder than she means to.

 

She’s not.

 

* * *

 

She fixes the helmet until it doesn’t resemble her at all, and throws up without being drunk enough to justify it, and it all sucks and she just wants everything to **stop** for five minutes and let her catch up.

 

But Dummy keeps pushing against her and JARVIS keeps talking to her and there’s something, something from Afghanistan, from the cave, from Yinsen…

 

She can’t think about it.

 

* * *

 

Flying is exhilarating. In the air, Toni _can’t think_ of anything besides flying. She can understand a little of why Rhodey used to blow her off to fly his jet. It’s liberating.

 

Except for the ice thing. Out of all the stupid, small things _to forget about_.

 

At least the armor proves itself to be durable enough to handle crashing through the roof of the house. And the second floor. And the first floor and the piano (Obie was definitely not going to like that). And straight into a car. Without any significant damage whatsoever. The impact hurts her chest; she lets it. Good.

 

And hey, not dead, so plus on that. Even is JARVIS is ignoring her and Dummy’s annoyed enough to spray her with the extinguisher again.

 

She’s searching for her soldering iron when she sees it – a rectangular shape on top of a pile of calculated sheets, wrapped in plain paper-bag wrapping with a sticky note on top. _From Pepper,_ it says simply, as though it’s not out of place and has every right to be there. It makes her pause, uncertain, because Pepper doesn’t give randomly give presents and she _certainly_ doesn’t give them to Toni.

 

Curiosity wins out – she opens the package with a few careful movements, lets the paper fall to the table as her stomach goes cold.

 

The old arc reactor, encased in protective glass and mounted, surrounded by an engraved plating that read in bold, solid lettering,

 

**Never Ashamed**

**Always Proud**

It slips from her hands and back to the table. Because it’s Pepper, it doesn’t break.

 

She throws up in the toilet and doesn’t move for hours. When she does come back out, she bypasses the table completely.

 

Gifts.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“A little ostentatious, don’t you think?”

 

“Whatever was I thinking? You’re usually so discreet.”

 

_But maybe I don’t want to be seen anymore._

 

“… Ma’am?”

 

_Maybe_

 

“… Throw a little hot-rod red in there, too.”

 

* * *

 

 

Cotton and silk are the only fabrics that don’t catch and pull – cotton is too hot and silk is too … sensual, the sensation trapping her in her head. Worn cotton, however – her band t-shirts that she’s owned and worn for years, are just big enough and thin enough that it’s like they’re barely there at all.

 

And no one can look bad adorning AC/DC, they just can’t. Shoot to Thrill, and all that.

 

There’s no mirror, all she can see is the shirt, and it makes her grin.

 

She’s picking up a box of (or what had been a box of, anyway) screws Butterfingers had bumped into and sent to the ground, spending more effort pushing the sullen and over-eager bot _away_ from the mess than actually getting it off the floor, when she hears it on the speakers.

 

_“… where Toni Stark’s 3 rd Annual Fire Fighter Family Fund has become the place to be …”_

 

What?

 

“JARVIS, did we get an invite to that? Freaking- Butterfingers, I swear, if you touch one more screw I will _dismantle you and turn you into modern artwork for Pepper_ -.”

 

“I have no records of such an invitation,” JARVIS responds immediately. She frowns, the reporter on the television still talking.

 

_“…hasn’t been seen since her bizarre and controversial press conference. Some claim she’s suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, while others are inclined to believe the weight of the business world has finally caused the country’s richest female CEO to break down. Whatever the reason, no one expects to see Miss Stark tonight-.”_

 

And they shouldn’t be, really. She’s laying low, like Obie instructed. Plus, she doesn’t have a dress. Plus, she can’t … she shudders, at the thought, imagining it, people looking, noticing, _knowing._

But …

 

Country’s richest _female_ CEO.

 

Breaking down under the weight of the business world.

 

Breaking _down_ -.

 

“J.” Her voice is hoarse, choked, dry. “Rhodey still have a suit jacket or two here?”

 

“Yes, ma’am. All four are located in the back of your closet.”

 

 

It’s a little hard to breathe, maybe.

 

* * *

It’s very hard to breathe.

 

The Audi purrs deliciously as it stops against the edge of the carpet; the press roars with questions as she steps out, cameras flashing wildly. The purple tint of her sunglasses blocks the glare, the hefty shoulders of the jacket pushing in against the loose dark button-up blouse, adding the effect of what _isn’t there_ , and she forces a cocky smile to her lips as she flashes a peace sign to all of them, grateful that they actually keep their distance, don’t push against her.

 

Obadiah is standing on the stairs outside, eyes wide while staring at her, and again she feels another stab of guilt. But also a flare of sass she hasn’t experienced in a long time.

 

“What are you doing here?” He asks when she nears, all smiles, and her own smile fades to a grin.

 

“Country’s richest _female_ CEO?” She hisses, leaning in as more cameras flash. “ _Breaking down under the weight of the business world_?” And he has the grace to cringe.

 

“Alright, that sounds bad-.”

 

“I’ll be inside,” she says shortly, turns to leave, and is surprised when he gently grabs her shoulder. He’s the first person who … who _knows_ , that’s touched her so casually.

 

“Be careful,” he says into her ear. “The Board is antsy with you, but I think I got them right where I want them. Just go easy.” He pulls his hand away, and she bites down on the disappointment at the loss, and nods.

 

Inside, she sees Pepper instantly, a vision in backless blue and flowing red that makes her heart hurt a little. She’s chatting up the CEO of another company, laughing, doing her job and enjoying it – Toni’s not about to interrupt. God knows Pepper deserves whatever happiness she can get these days, working for her.

 

She goes to the bar instead, orders martinis (and plenty of them, she wants a drink) from a bartender who recognizes her face and drops everything to wait on her (new times, old things), when she’s cornered by a feisty blonde with an infuriated scowl and a face Toni vaguely remembers, and pictures are all but slapped into her face. She’s so stunned by the contents that she forgets to move out of the woman’s space, away from her eyes, instead entranced by the images of _her weapons_ , branded with _her name_ , on the backs of trucks she’s seen before.

 

“…When were these taken?” She whispers. _God._

“Yesterday,” the woman – a reporter – snaps back mercilessly. “Your company seems to be making its millions on the backs of terrorists, Stark.”

 

“I’m not my company,” she snarls back, crumbling the photos in her fist and darting off. Obie will fix this, he has to. He has to fix it.

 

_Obie, Obie, Obie._

 

But Obadiah smiles at the photos, looks her in the eye and calls her naïve, and Toni’s frozen, unmoving as he pulls her into a pose for pictures, holds her body to his in a way that’s close, feels safe, before he walks away.

 

“Who do you think locked you out?”

 

* * *

_They were in the way._

It’s fucked up. It’s all fucked up.

 

She takes a swig from one of Howard’s special reserved whiskey bottles that's been stashed away for years and then smashes the rest of it to the ground, because he’s dead, and this sucks.

 

Butterfingers is smart enough not to come near to pick up the pieces.

 

_Who do you think locked you out?_

She grabs another bottle – vodka, she loves vodka. Drinks it, too, because it’s already half-empty from months (years? It feels like years) before, and sends it careening into the opposite wall, unnoticing as it shatters against the window but doesn’t break the glass.

 

_Reconstructive surgery._

“Fuck!” She screams – forces the word out in a way that burns her throat, sucks at her lungs. Her chest screams in protest and she wants to let it, wants to cut it open again, let it bleed all over the ground and maybe that, maybe that will just _fix everything why is it broken, why?_

She throws another bottle she doesn’t even bother to open, and the windshield of the Audi is gone. Another, and another. She doesn’t see what they hit. She doesn’t look.

 

_They were in the way._

She sinks to the floor. Her head’s pounding, her chest heaving, but she isn’t crying.

 

_Who do you think locked you out?_

 

“… JARVIS?” His response is just as soft.

 

_They were in the way._

 

“Here as always, ma’am.”

 

_Who do you think locked you out?_

 

_They were in the way._

 

“Bring up those repulsor specs.”

 

* * *

 

She knows now. She knows, and she watches, and she sees the terrorists that held her where they think they can’t be seen.

 

In an armor of red and gold, riches and blood because _she can be poetic,_ she kills all but one, aims her weapons and hits them with perfect precision, freeing their captives and a part of herself, too.

 

The last one she grabs, holds in her hands for a few murderously-tempting seconds, before throwing him to the people he tried to slaughter. She’s capable of sharing, and he’s not what she really wants.

 

She goes after the weapons – the guns, the bombs, the missiles that have killed hundreds and will kill thousands more. JARVIS pulls up their locations with flawless efficiency, marks them on her radar and says nothing as she takes out them and whoever controls their aim.

 

The world has always called her the Merchant of Death, the least she can do is earn the name in a more honorable fashion.

 

She hadn’t meant to antagonize the United States Air Force. Rhodey still sounds angry when he calls, but she can’t afford to care about that right now, because she’s really trying not to get dead because her weapons are still very much out there and okay. Fine, yes Rhodey, it’s her, she’s in the damn suit and … fuck, no, she hadn’t meant to destroy the jet, but she saved the pilot, so… sorry? Son of a bitch was a little uncalled for in a name, but she’ll take crazy. She’s starting to believe that one a little, actually. Stop laughing.

 

“Now do you want to come see what I’m working on?” She asks tentatively, once she’s out of view of the jets and the military’s radar. JARVIS is noting more weapon locations. Fuck. How are there so many?

 

“…I think the less I know about this one, the better,” he says quietly, the laughter gone from his voice. The fight drains from her, and she ends the call without a good-bye.

 

Suddenly, she’s tired.

 

 

* * *

 

It hurts.

 

“J, be gentle, please. Shit, ow. Dummy! _Gentle_.”

 

The scars are rugged; without padding, they take bruises easier than the rest of her body. Under the body suit, she knows they’ll be red in agony, and she doesn’t care, she doesn’t. The reactor twinges as if in sympathy, as if it’s connected to them, as if they are running a network connection where –

 

“Toni?”

 

Pepper’s staring in disbelief, tension written across her face. And despite that her body is literally being pulled in all directions, the brunette wants to curl in on herself, hide, because the chest plate is off and the bodysuit is skintight, and Pepper’s seen it, she has, but this is different, not a medical setting, not life or death, she notices and it’s killing her and _put the armor back on-_

“Are those _bullet holes_?”

… How is Pepper real?

 

* * *

 

“I can’t sit here and watch you _kill yourself_.”

 

“But you were willing to stand beside me as I killed millions of others.”

 

“…”

 

“Pepper, shit, look. I’m … I’m trying to make this right. I’m trying to do the right thing, and f-fix this. I need to fix this.”

 

“Toni. Toni, if this is because of the sca-.”

 

“It’s not! It’s… not. No. It’s because I’m responsible. This is my mess, I let this happen. I need to fix this, and I need you to help me. I don’t … I don’t have anyone else, not anymore.” _Because of them._

“…My job is to do whatever it is Ms. Stark requires.”

 

“It’s Obie.”

 

* * *

 

 

Her mother’s favorite phrase for her every day had been classic and simple: “You are beautiful, Natasha.”

 

Her father had never exactly pinned down his phrase for her, but the underlying gist of “you’re an imperfection, a stain on the Stark name” had never exactly been hard to interpret, even if it had mostly been uttered in drunken, angry slurs.

 

She had never really been sure which one to believe.

 

They would probably be in agreement now, though.

 

* * *

Obie. Obie has always been there. Toni’s shoulder. Toni’s buffer. Toni’s shield.

 

Toni’s torturer.

 

Toni’s murderer.

 

It’s fitting.

 

He stands over her now, holding the paralyzer to her ear, large hands carefully cradling her head as he helps her senseless body sink onto the couch.

 

“Easy, easy,” he murmurs, smoothing her hair back from her face as her eyes track him. He’s smiling kindly, eyes soft. His hands are moving, one trailing down the front of her shirt, stopping at the hem, while the other pulls a pair of scissors from his back pocket. “Shh,” he soothes when her eyes widen, as she tries to (can’t) shift away, frowns a little. “Shh, Toni. You know I would never hurt you like that. Not you. Not ever.” He opens the blades, slips the shirt between them, cuts away. “Don’t be so nervous,” he continues. “It’s alright. It’s not like there’s anything there anymore anyway.”

 

She wants to die.

 

She wants to take him with her.

 

“I was a bit worried, when I ordered that hit on you, that I was killing the golden goose too soon.” He splays the ruined shirt open, bearing her chest and scars to the emptiness of the room and too many eyes. “I’m sorry that you went through what you did, really. I had meant for you to be killed in the attack. It was cruel that you survived, and that they kept you alive the way they did. But I couldn’t bring you back, you understand. I really needed you to be dead, Toni.” Slowly, a look of reverence on his face, his hands cup and smooth over the bulge of the arc reactor, the glow bathing him. “But I’m glad you did come back. You had one more golden egg to give me, didn’t you?”

 

She doesn’t see the other instrument until it’s in front of her, against the reactor; until he’s pushing down and it’s cutting into her chest. Her body is useless, but it jolts violently when he finally rips the reactor away, popping the cords, detaching it from her heart in brutal callousness. Contradictorily, he catches her, keeps her from hitting the floor, puts the reactor down so that he can prop her back up against the cushions.

 

“It was a little selfish of you to keep this away from the company for so long, Natasha,” he chides once she’s situated again, as if she’s a child. “Your father helped give us the atomic bomb – imagine if he been like you, and denied that to the world?” She can feel the nerves in her body start to thrum, waking up, and she shakes involuntarily, hard enough to catch Obadiah’s attention. His hand is back against her head in a second. “Oh, Toni. Shh,” he soothes again, leaning in, pressing a tender kiss against the side of her head. “This will change everything. Your last symphony. No one’s going to forget you.” He smiles then, as if it’s reassuring, and stands up. Leaving, he’s leaving, and she’s dying just like this. But he pauses, looking down at her, a funny frown on his face, and his hand is reaching down again. She can’t block him, move away, as his fingers slowly travel the haphazard lines of her scars, tracing them like they’re his to touch, moving up and down with every bump. “I _am_ sorry about these. So damn sorry.” And fuck him, he sounds remorseful as his hands smooth over her ruined skin. “No woman should have to lose something so important to them. Maybe this is a good thing for you. You won’t have to live with it.”

 

_Nothing to be ashamed of._

He’s moving away now, grabbing the arc reactor up with an odd little smile on his face, staring at it as he reaches the door. At the last second, as the cold is starting to seep into her body, and small laces of pain start to hit her heart, he turns his head, and says in regretful quiet,

 

“It’s a shame you had to involve Pepper in this. I would have preferred that she live.”

 

He’s gone, and the cold is red.

 

 

* * *

 

JARVIS isn’t there.

 

She calls. It’s not loud, but with JARVIS it doesn’t have to be. He’s attuned to her, at her wavelength one-hundred-and-ten percent of the time in this house. He answers if she breathes funny. But he’s silent now, cut by Obadiah. She’s on her own.

 

Or as on her own as she can be, face-down on the floor of her workshop, heart giving way to too much work and shrapnel, body only half working, and Dummy gently placing the encased spare reactor carefully beside her, whirring in concern. _Good boy, such a good boy, Dummy_ as it smashes.

 

She sucks in fresh, powered breaths on a ground of shattered glass as Rhodey’s frantic voice echoes down the stairway, pushes herself up as she hears his hurried footsteps get closer.

 

“Ton-.” He stops as she stands, the shirt still left open, her scars and lack of femininity on full display. The emotions that shutter across his face are too many, she can’t identify them, doesn’t try, doesn’t have time. Just pushes by him, stumbles to the armor and the bodysuit and _moves._

 

“Pepper!” She demands, pulling the suit over her body. The covering of her chest snaps her friend from his shock, jolts him to what is important _now_.

 

“She’s with some government agents. They’ve gone to arrest Obadiah.” Agents? What had Pepper been _up_ to?

 

“That won’t be enough.” Dummy, Butterfingers, and You are frantic as they help with the suit, but the rest of the machines are quick – JARVIS is silent, but he’s not gone. It surrounds her body, encases her, lights her up with a power she’s never had before, emboldens her in a way that gives Rhodey pause.

 

“Toni.” They don’t have time for this, but she pauses at the tone of his voice; she hasn’t heard it in so long. “Did Obadiah … did he …”

 

_Would he? Even still…?_

“ _Fuck you, Rhodes_ ,” she snarls; the metallic sound of it through the filters makes the man flinch back, and she takes the opportunity to fire up the thrusters. “Keep the skies clear.”

 

And shoots off before he can say another word.

* * *

 

She finds Obadiah at the factory, only feet from Pepper, from the shady government agents she’s found for herself.

 

Toni wants him to die.

 

And she’ll go out with him.

 

It’s only fair.

 

Obie has always wanted to be her, to be her father. To be the driving force of power behind their technology and their weapons – powerful, famous, _self-sustaining_. But he isn’t.

 

He hadn’t known about the icing problem.

 

And he had underestimated her.

 

She can’t take him down like this; this reactor isn’t made for the armor, there isn’t enough power. Her helmet is destroyed and a gauntlet lost. But she has Pepper, Pepper who said herself that her job was to see to Ms. Stark’s every need.

 

She holds him down as her assistant ignites the original arc reactor in actual poetic justice.

 

“Beaten by a Stark!” She shouts through his own helmet, can’t fight the grin. “Nothing to be ashamed of!”

 

It explodes, and she sees black.

 

* * *

 

 

_Toni wakes to excruciating pain and damp, dark walls._

 

_The eruption in her chest is beyond fire, beyond cold – she can’t describe it, only that she wants it to please fucking stop please._

_There’s … there’s something, something in her nose, trailing out – she pulls it, sobbing, gasping as it travels up from her throat, from her nose, sliding out only after she can’t breathe, and she shoots up, only for something to yank her back from the center of her chest._

_She looks down, her hands reaching something … something hard. A hole in the center of her chest, something heavy and long in the middle of it, attached to wires, like Frankenstein’s monster, like a monster. She gasps, unable to catch her breath, tears sliding down her cheeks as her hands trace the pain further, sliding across where her breasts should be, only to feel warm, wet flatness._

_“You’ve pulled the stitches,” a male voice states accusingly._

_Her head shoots up again, frantic, desperate, catches sight of a thin figure of a man standing only a few feet away, as dark and damp as the walls surrounding her. “What the hell is going on?” She demands; coughs, because it hurts. “What the fuck is this? What did you do to me?”_

_“I saved your life!” The stranger hisses back, over her in an instant. His face is angry, but his hands are gentle as they feel across her body for the sources of her pain – doctor hands, and his face softens instantly when he touches the blood._

_“Please,” she begs, whispers, and he looks at her, straight in the eyes. “What did you do to me? Please.”_

_His expression is pained as he pushes against what isn’t there. “They were in the way.”_

* * *

She awakens to painfully bright lights and the steady beeping of a heart monitor. For a second, it’s different, and she lets her eyes slip closed to the easy darkness.

 

“Ms. Stark,” a dry voice announces, cracking the quiet peace harshly. Her eyes snap open again, and she jolts to the realization that she is _in the hospital_.

 

“Shit, shit.” The machine to her left spikes in warning, and a man, presumably the one who spoke, quickly approaches the bed. The bed, that she’s in, in a hospital. In a hospital gown. She’s been stripped down and put in a gown and _where the fuck is she_?

 

“Ms. Stark, I’m Agent Coulson,” the man says lowly, stopping mere inches from her, hands up. “I must ask that you please calm down. Your heart is already under enough stress-.”

 

“Who saw?” She cuts him off. Who saw? It isn’t … she can’t… no one can know, she’ll lose everything.

 

“Ms. Stark, please,” the man – Coulson – beseeches in the same low tone. “Everything is fine. You’re at a SHIELD medical facility. This is not a public hospital.”

 

“SHIELD?” Is that supposed to mean something? Her heart hurts.

 

“We helped you with Obadiah Stane,” Coulson continues, and oh. There.

 

She peers at him more closely, sees the barest hints- “You were … with Pepper.”

 

“That’s right. Can you calm your breathing for me now, Ms. Stark? I’m sorry I startled you.” He sounds genuinely contrite, as if it hadn’t occurred to him that randomly bursting out any words in the middle of quiet room in a sudden fashion would startle anyone. Who even thinks that? No one thinks that. It’s a law of mankind. “’Ms. Stark,” he tries again, and she can’t hear him.

 

But then Pepper is there. Her brilliant Pepper, standing beside the weird agent, her hands against Toni’s face, breathing with her. Pepper. Pepper’s alive. And … Toni’s alive. They’re both alive.

 

“Obadiah?” She gasps out. Both of her companions shake their heads, a duet of ‘dead’ ringing out that she can’t feel remorse for. She focuses solely on Pepper. “Did… does anyone know? Did anyone see?”

 

She’s not asking about the armor, or about the fight, and because Pepper is Pepper, she knows.

 

“No,” she states firmly. She brushes Toni’s hair back, like Obie did, but it’s different, there’s nothing else there. “Lie back, Toni. You’re alright now. I promise. I’m going to help you, once you tell me how.”

 

She does. They do. Coulson doesn’t leave, but he turns his back as Pepper pulls down the gown, though she doesn’t really know why, because _there isn’t anything there anymore anyway_ , but she appreciates. The site of the arc reactor is sore, but the circular cut is clean, and together she and Pepper switch out the old arc reactor for the stolen one. Toni can breathe again, and pretends not to see Pepper pocket the engraved one. _Again_.

 

She falls back to sleep to Pepper and the agent’s quiet talking, the blanket pulled to her chin.

 

She’s so damn tired.

 

 

* * *

 

“They’re calling it Iron Man.”

 

“Well, there’s no, you know, boobs on the armor, so I guess I could see that. In a misogynistic way.”

 

It’s not only Pepper’s quick ripping of the bandage from her forehead that stings after she says it.

 

There is no obvious breast guard on the suit, so of course it must be a man who pilots it.

 

“I like ‘Iron Man’, though. My second favorite Black Sabbath song. I mean, the suit isn’t _actually_ made of iron, but I forgave the general public for their science stupidity eons ago because I’m such a nice person, and it’s catchy. I wouldn’t mind being called Iron Man.” And she wouldn’t, really. It surprises her how much it _doesn’t_ bother her.

 

“You won’t be called Iron Man,” Pepper reminds her with a roll of her eyes, brushing a fresh dusting of concealing powder across her face. The bruise is tricky to hide. “That’s the point of this press conference, remember? He was your-.”

 

“Bodyguard, yes, I know.” She huffs a breath, ignoring how her body groans at the effort, and casts a look to the man in the corner. “Really think the press is going to buy that story, Coulson? My iron body guard?”

 

“They will if you stick to the cards, Ms. Stark,” the agent answers easily, though his lips quirk up in a grin that eases her shoulders a little. “We have witnesses who can all testify to every last detail we provided the story. This isn’t my first rodeo. We’ll keep this under wraps, we promise.”

 

“Uh-huh.” They probably can. She doesn’t know SHIELD like Pepper knows SHIELD, but they seem the scarily efficient sort of type; the kind of government agency people wrote conspiracies on. Which is creepy.

 

Pepper finishes the touch-ups and then leaves to be amongst the reporters to answer pre and post questions like the assistant she is, giving Toni’s arm a quick, tight squeeze as she does. Coulson moves forward to take her place, and they both watch the monitor to await her cue. The speaker isn’t someone she recognizes – a SHIELD contact inside the military somewhere, a higher-up the press will listen to. They had offered to arrange for Rhodey, and her friend hadn’t said no, but …

 

“Our official cover story for Obadiah Stane’s death is a plane crash somewhere in the Pacific. Small aircrafts have a poor safety rate, it’s believable,” Coulson says suddenly, and her head whips to him, startled. “If you would rather it be something more gruesome or horrific, I have one or two imaginative colleagues who could come up with something better.”

 

“That’s … no. Um, the original story is fine. Though if you could add that he got impaled through the chest or something, you know,” she swallows, “for my own personal pleasure, I wouldn’t mind.”

 

He had still cared, a little, in his fucked up way. She can spare him a fictionalized brutal death, at least.

 

Especially since she had actually killed him.

 

Coulson gives a slight, tight smile. “I’ll see what I can do.” They’re quiet again, the contact wrapping up, preparing for her, when the man adds, quieter than he already was, “I know some people you could talk to, if you wanted. Professionals, completely confidential, who could help you. If you want to.”

 

If you want to. About what you don’t have anymore. About what you lost. About how much less of a woman you are now. About how to cope with being broken, to convince you to fix yourself.

 

Toni flinches, forces a smile as the speaker at the podium steps aside. Her cue. “Nah.” Slips on sunglasses. “I got this, Agent.”

 

* * *

 

Note cards are stupidly easy to get out of order and the reporter who had cornered her with the pictures at the party is a relentless harpy with a tenacity Toni sort of admires.

 

She isn’t a hero, no. Not even the hero type, and it’s laughably pathetic to a sad degree to even imply that she would be in the same category as Captain America.

 

Coulson’s watching her and Pepper’s watching her and somewhere Rhodey’s watching her too.

 

To these people, she’s Natasha Antonia Stark, sad little CEO suffering from PTSD and more broken than they know. They would shred her to pieces if they did know, leaving nothing but her carcass, more whole than she is now. They’ve built her suit up to be a modern-day superhero who can hide under armor and be scrutinized only by his _actions_.

 

Her chest heaves under her puffed-out blouse and jacket and she shifts under the tense silence following the reporter’s question and the mess of cards in her hands, her scars pulling and empty and okay, fine.

 

Fuck this.

 

“The truth is,” she smirks a mask, “I am Iron Man.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
